Page 14 of Moonlight Over Mistletoe
“Well, part of it comes with experience; the other comes with Google.”
That caused Eleanor to smile.
“Shall we?” Christopher asked, offering his hand. “We could start with a waltz. I don't have music, but perhaps you could count the beats?”
Eleanor nodded, slipping her hand into his. They began to dance, and as Christopher heard Eleanor count 1,2, 3–1,2,3, he would have sworn that music emanated from the very trees themselves.
Slowly, Eleanor's rigid posture softened. Christopher marveled at the grace in her movements, the way her feet seemed to float across the lake. As they twirled and swayed, he found himself lost in her eyes, seeing past her stern exterior to the passionate dancer within.
“I’m relieved that my memory of you as a dance partner didn’t fail me. You’re not half bad,” Eleanor admitted, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
Christopher chuckled, allowing a bit more energy and flair to enter his steps.
As they danced across the ice in perfect sync, Christopher sensed a deepening connection between them. Their movements flowed seamlessly, matching the splendor of the crisp winter day. The rhythmic crunch of their steps on the ice and the warmth of the sun on their faces created a shared moment of pure joy. Christopher relished this growing bond, silently hoping Eleanor felt it, too.
They whirled through a tango and a foxtrot, and as they were finishing a rhumba, Christopher noticed that Eleanor's eyes glistened with unshed tears before a single droplet escaped, trailing down her cheek.
“Eleanor?” he prompted, slowing their movement. “What's wrong?”
Eleanor's breath hitched, her controlled demeanor crumbling. “I haven't danced like this since Carl’s death. I’m sorry.”
Christopher's heart ached at the pain in her voice. “What happened?”
She looked away, but he lifted her chin and stared imploringly into her eyes. “Hey, you can tell me. Or not. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
The silence stretched out like a long winter night, and Christopher ached to comfort her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, content to provide her with nothing more than a shoulder to cry on. But then she spoke.
“We were competing and had won our competition. Carl was laughing, telling me how beautiful I looked, and then he collapsed. Right there on the dance floor.” Her voice broke. “Brain aneurysm. He was gone before the ambulance arrived.”
“Oh, Eleanor,” he whispered, his own memories of loss rising to the surface. “I'm so sorry. While everyone's experience of loss is unique, I understand that pain, that emptiness.”
“It was so long ago, and yet…how do you do it? How do you move on?” she asked, her voice muffled against his parka.
“I wish I knew,” Christopher said, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I think that we always carry our lost loves with us. They're a part of us. But I'm also beginning to discover that we need to find happiness in the memories, and not only pain.”
“I hope you're right,” Eleanor said. “The night he died, I vowed never to dance again. I sold our dance studio, moved back to Mistletoe, and lost contact with all my friends in the dance world. And I never danced until you asked me at Martin's wedding. That one dance began to rekindle a part of me I'd buried along with Carl. I want to remember Carl and me dancing with fondness, and I know Carl would want me to dance. He'd be heartbroken at the angry and bitter woman I've become. So I'm trying. For him. For me. But it's hard. Change is hard.”
“Oh, Elenor,” he whispered, gently kissing the top of her head.
They stood there, holding each other, sharing a moment of vulnerability and understanding that transcended words.
After a while, Eleanor shivered, so Christopher pulled back. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go warm up.”
He led Eleanor back to the sleigh, producing a thermos from beneath the seat. “Hot chocolate,” he explained, pouring two steaming cups.
“Thank you for today,” Eleanor said. “And I'm sorry for my behavior. I don't normally reveal my feelings like that. I’m terribly embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he insisted. “ I'm glad I was here for you. I'd like to think we're becoming friends.”
“Me too,” Eleanor said, and they clinked their mugs together.
As they sat side by side, sipping their cocoa, Christopher hesitated momentarily before slowly slipping his free hand into Eleanor's. To his surprise and delight, she didn't pull away.
11
Eleanor'seyesscannedtheprogram for the umpteenth time, chewing on her lip in concentration. The surrounding kitchen starkly contrasted her intense focus—calming yellow walls adorned with vintage dance posters, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from an antique percolator.
“Do you see any typos here?” Eleanor asked Vivian, sliding the paper across the table.
